


Royal Flush

by strange_h3arts



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Silva, Gags, Gunplay, M/M, Nipple Play, Porn With Plot, bond for bondage, casino royale au!, guns tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_h3arts/pseuds/strange_h3arts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a gift to alexwhitewell (<a href="http://www.blinkingkills.tumblr.com">blinkingkills</a>) for the 00silva gift exchange! Hope you like it <3</p><p>The story takes place during the Casino Royale era. I admit that with the inclusion of Silva, some of the plot specifics might not work out. So don’t look too deeply; just enjoy the porn XD Also, although I love Vesper’s character, I decided to omit her from the story so as not to overcomplicate the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Royal Flush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexwhitewell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexwhitewell/gifts).



**August 2006**

Silva swam to the side of the yacht and clambered up onto the stern, ignoring the towel proffered by a deckhand as he strode towards Le Chiffre’s seat.

“Have a good swim?” Le Chiffre murmured distractedly, never raising his eyes from his tablet. Checking the stocks again, Silva surmised. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“The water is too cold for my liking,” Silva replied, and shook his dripping hair all over the other man’s freshly laundered suit.

“Stop that,” Le Chiffre yelped, his chair leaning back precariously on two legs.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Silva said with a lazy smile, smoothing back his disheveled blonde locks with one hand.

Le Chiffre scowled, but soon the frown was replaced by an appreciative smirk as Silva stretched his arms above his head, water droplets glistening on cords of tanned muscle. Silva felt his eyes on him and let out an obscene sigh, just to make it sweeter.

Le Chiffre was rather simple, when it came down to it, Silva thought to himself. So easily… manipulated. 

He leaned in and brushed his lips to Le Chiffre’s cheek. “I’ll be in the shower.”

\---

It was too easy, really. Silva _was_ Le Chiffre’s client, technically- as if he really needed someone to manage his finances. He hadn’t sought Le Chiffre out of necessity, but out of boredom. The real reason was that Silva enjoyed toying with the man. Le Chiffre was an idiot by Silva’s standards, certainly, but he was not completely charmless. He was all right in bed, anyways. And it was _so_ delicious to give Le Chiffre the illusion of control, when really, Silva was the one who had drained the accounts of the two Ugandan cartel members Le Chiffre was banking for after the _Skyfleet_ disaster. It had been a whim.

 And as an added bonus, Silva had decided to tag along to Montenegro to win the money back. He played it off as a favor: as one of Le Chiffre’s most affluent clients, Silva hadn’t found it hard to win the man’s trust. After a few drinks, Le Chiffre had finally spilled the beans about the spectacular funding loss and his plan to gain it all back at the high-stakes poker game.

“This is a… regrettable situation. But I assure you that _your_ funds are safe, Mr. Silva,” Le Chiffre had said, nervously wiping his brow with a handkerchief. 

Silva had laughed. “It’s not the funds I’m worried about, Le Chiffre. It’s you. As your client- and friend- I’m concerned about what’s waiting for you in Montenegro. How can you be so sure that those men won’t be waiting for you when you get there? They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

Le Chiffre had twitched then, and a dark bead of blood had bubbled up in the corner of his eye.

“I… I can’t be sure. The odds are against me, I suppose,” he admitted.

And then Silva had smiled, because he knew he had him. “Let me come with you.”

He could have rigged the poker game, if he wanted to. But where would be the fun in that? He wanted to see Le Chiffre squirm.

The best part was that the man still had no idea what Silva did for a living. In Le Chiffre’s kind of business, only Silva’s money was important- not where it came from. Even if it had been discreetly siphoned from the accounts of his other clients.

**Two weeks later**

The casino is gorgeous, and Montenegro even more so. Silva spends the majority of the first day lounging in his hotel room and exploring the city. He only checks his laptop a few times, which is unheard of- after all, this is a sort of vacation for him.

After a swim in the pool and a short afternoon nap, he finally decides to check on Le Chiffre. The man hasn’t been the best of company recently-- Silva guesses that the pressure of the game is too much for him-- but it would be charitable to at least bring him a drink.

After taking his usual regimen of pain pills, Silva dresses himself in a black Ermenegildo Zegna dinner jacket with a red dress shirt and combs his hair back with a small amount of gel. He looks in the mirror and, for once, he likes what he sees.

Silva hums to himself as he descends the stairs to the main floor of the casino. He had promised Le Chiffre that he would look out for any potential “problems”-- hitmen or the like-- and now, primarily out of boredom, he finds himself hoping that something interesting will happen.

\---

Once you’ve been in MI6, you can spot another agent anywhere. That’s why when he catches a glimpse of the man with piercing blue eyes in the elegant black dinner jacket, Silva is instantly intrigued. To the average bystander, the man might appear absolutely ordinary. It’s the subtle things-- the coolness in his eyes, the predatory stance, the perfect cut of his clothes for a concealed firearm-- these are the signs that Silva is dealing with one of his own.

The man must be here for Le Chiffre. This should be interesting. 

\---

Silva leans against the bar and orders an Old Fashioned. Sipping his drink, he watches a sweaty Le Chiffre and the possible MI6 agent go into contortions over their poker game. Silva enjoys a game himself every now and again- he loves making people squirm- but tonight he’d rather watch. Soon they’ll be taking a break, anyway, and he wants to talk to this mystery man who has undoubtedly captured his attention.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the house calls for an hour-long break. Silva watches the man as he rises from the table, gives a sarcastic nod to Le Chiffre, and heads straight for the bar. Perfect.

“Vodka martini, please. Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, and a half measure of Lillet. Shaken, and add a slice of lemon peel, if you would,” the man orders in a neutral English accent, his voice confident and attractively low.

Silva raises an eyebrow. He can tell that the man has an earpiece on, further confirming his suspicions. With that and the fact that Le Chiffre has been on M’s hit list for years, Silva is almost certain that the man is working for MI6.

“Interesting choice of drink,” he comments, turning towards the agent and taking a sip from his own glass. “Is that a personal invention?”

The man chuckles, and Silva is rewarded with a dazzling glimpse of white teeth.

“I may have plagiarized it from a friend. But I suppose you could call it my specialty. What are you drinking?”

Friendly; almost too friendly, Silva thinks. Normalcy doesn’t come naturally when you’ve got a semi-automatic strapped to your torso.

“Old Fashioned,” Silva replies, smoothing the lapel of his suit. “Safe choice, I suppose. It could use more whiskey.”

The man smiles again. “That’s always the case, isn’t it?”

Silva takes a sip of his drink and decides to make his move. “So, what brings you to Montenegro, Mr.…?”

“Bond,” the man supplies him, and extends his hand. “James Bond.” His handshake is warm and firm, and the lack of hesitation suggests that he’s using his real name after all. Odd.

“Raoul Silva. It’s a pleasure,” Silva replies, and the corner of Bond’s mouth twitches. Perhaps it’s obvious that he’s using a fake name.

“Just here as a little break from business,” Bond continues, and his eyes gleam with humor. The lie is atrocious, and he knows it. “And you, Mr. Silva?”

“Here with a friend.” Silva glances towards Le Chiffre, and Bond raises his eyebrows imperceptibly. “The game is a little high-stakes for me, I’m afraid.”

Bond is here to nab Le Chiffre; that much is obvious. Silva toys with the idea of seducing him. Loyalty is something that lost its meaning to him a long time ago, and now, with this gorgeous man leaning against the bar beside him, he can barely remember why he came here with Le Chiffre at all. Besides, the idea of making M’s newest toy fall apart under his fingers and tongue is too tantalizing to pass up. This vacation is about to get a lot more interesting.  

But before Bond milks him for information, he’ll have to milk him for… something else. Lovely.

“How do you know your friend?” Bond asks, suddenly bold. “His poker game is excellent.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Silva drawls after a pause, deciding to tease him. “I might need a few more drinks before I can remember.” It’s a risky line, but from the sultry edge to Bond’s gaze and the way the agent’s body angles slightly towards him against the bar, he thinks it might pay off.

Bond smiles. “Shall we continue this conversation after the session ends tonight?”

This is promising.

“I’d enjoy that very much,” Silva replies, and takes a final sip of his drink.

\---

It’s almost midnight before the game ends for the evening.

Earlier, after Bond and Silva had said their goodbyes and returned to their rooms for the rest of the break, Le Chiffre’s Ugandan clients had shown up at the hotel to demand their money back, even threatening to cut of Silva’s arm to speed up the process. Luckily they had talked them down, but after the men had left the room Silva could hear the unmistakable sound of a body thudding down the adjacent stairwell. He assumed it had something to do with Bond.

Le Chiffre was shaken, and had gone to bed early once the game had ended. Silva kissed him and said goodnight, promising that he would come back to the room after a few drinks.

But if all goes well, Silva hopes that he’ll be out for much longer than that.

\---

Bond is standing at the bar when Silva enters the room, looking slightly disheveled. His Brioni jacket is open and his white dress shirt is slightly unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a tanned strip of neck. In other words, he looks completely fuckable.

“Good evening, Mr. Silva,” Bond says casually, utterly composed. He takes a sip from the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, the delicious curve of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks.

Silva smiles and motions to the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.” He pulls up two chairs and sits, allowing his eyes to unabashedly sweep over Bond’s lithe form as the agent follows suit.

“Good game today, don’t you think?” Silva asks, leaning in slightly closer than necessary.

“Could’ve been better. But for the first day, it wasn’t so bad… I must admit, some of the players are rather easy to read,” Bond replies with a smirk, allowing his legs to fall open as he sits. Silva resists the urge to suck in a breath.

“Really?” Silva takes a sip of liquor, savoring the flavor in his mouth. “Excellent choice of whiskey, by the way.” Bond dips his head, obviously pleased.

Silva continues. “You say you can read people.” Bond nods, looking curious.

His next words are a gamble, but it’s a risk Silva’s willing to take.

“Why don’t you read me? Tell me what I’ve been thinking since the first time I saw you.”

Bond’s responding smile is filthy. “Mm, I don’t know… do you fancy yourself transparent?”

“In this case, I certainly hope so.”

Bond finishes his whiskey, his arm brushing against Silva’s as he pushes the glass across the bar. “All right then. I think that you’re thinking… that we should take this conversation to my room.”

Silva raises an eyebrow, almost surprised at Bond’s forwardness. Delightful.

“I’m thinking that you’re right.”

\---

They walk up to Bond’s room, which, like Silva’s own, is a ridiculously opulent suite covered in gold leaf and blinding white upholstery. The bed is huge and heaped with throw pillows.

Bond gestures to the crystal decanter of whiskey on his bedside table. “Another drink?”

“Please.” Silva glances around Bond’s room, looking for a sign that he’s anything other than a businessman with too much money on his hands. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but he can imagine the stash of weapons and electronics that’s most likely in the closet or under the bed.

Bond hands him a glass of whiskey and walks towards the French doors that lead out onto the balcony. Silva follows, and they step out into the balmy night.

“It’s a nice view,” Bond comments, looking out over the sea of terra cotta roofs to the ocean’s edge.

“I agree,” Silva says with a smirk, his eyes lingering on Bond’s broad shoulders and the remarkably perky curve of his ass.

Bond sets his half-full glass of whiskey on the balcony’s edge and looks at Silva, his gaze suddenly intense.

“We both know that I’m not here on a business trip.”

Silva pauses, surprised at Bond’s honesty. “Well, obviously. Is that relevant?”

Bond smiles and steps closer; close enough that Silva can smell his cologne and the sweet scent of whiskey on his breath.

“Maybe.”

Bond reaches out a hand and traces the neck of Silva’s dress shirt, his finger dipping in the hollow of his collarbone.

“I guess the question is,” Bond continues, his voice dropping low, “…did you come here to kill me or fuck me?”

Silva breathes in sharply as Bond’s finger traces the edge of his jaw, the movement slow and achingly sensual. “Which would you prefer?”

Bond chuckles and slides his hand around the back of Silva’s neck, pulling him closer.

And then they’re kissing, and it’s slow and brutal and everything Silva had imagined. Bond’s lips are soft and pliant, and Silva savors them, biting and sucking on them until they’re swollen and hot to the touch. Bond responds with a moan, licking deep into Silva’s mouth as if to devour him. He tastes like peppermint and hard liquor. It’s spectacular.

They stumble into the bedroom, tearing at each other’s clothes as they go. Bond pushes Silva on the bed and rolls on top of him with athletic grace, leaning in to place a searing bite on his lower lip. Silva moans and rolls his crotch into Bond’s knee, reaching up to rake his fingers through the agent’s sandy blonde hair. Bond finally pulls away and makes a show of unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a tanned and heavily muscled torso. He’s absolutely stunning, his skin smooth and marred by only a few small scars- the mark of an agent that hasn’t been in service for very long.

Silva stands and beckons Bond closer, teasingly hooking a finger beneath the waistband of the agent’s pants. He allows Bond to take off his shirt, watching the other man’s face closely for a reaction. Silva keeps himself fit, but his torso is covered with burn marks and deep, rope-like scars that cut through his tan skin like a roadmap of pain. Bond stills at the sight, but after a moment he places a palm on Silva’s chest and leans in for another kiss. It’s touching, somehow.

Silva grins into Bond’s mouth and anchors his hands firmly to the agent’s toned hips, lowering him onto the mattress in a mirror of their earlier position. There are several expensive-looking silk ties on the dresser, and Silva takes two of them, looping them around Bond’s wrists so the agent is bound to the bedframe. Bond grins and tests the knot, his eyebrows lifting in slight surprise as it doesn’t budge.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Silva purrs, flicking Bond’s nipple with his thumbnail and watching the skin flush red at the touch. “Now where were we?”

Slowly, he traces a hand across Bond’s chest, lingering on each pec and then moving lower to the defined ridge of his abs. There’s a light blonde trail of hair that disappears under Bond’s waistband, and Silva follows it to the end, savoring the agent’s gasp as he caresses the growing bulge beneath it.

But there’s another bulge at Bond’s thigh- this one hard and unyielding. Silva smiles deviously as he removes the slick black handgun from Bond’s pants, watching Bond stiffen and then relax immediately to cover his surprise.

“Rookie mistake, leaving your gun in your pants,” Silva drawls, lightly thumbing the trigger. Bond’s eyes widen imperceptibly-- whether with fear or arousal, Silva can’t tell. He decides to find out.

“I think a mistake like this,” he continues, tracing the cold metal barrel across Bond’s exposed chest, “…deserves punishment. Don’t you, Agent Bond?”

Bond swallows thickly, his pupils blown huge in his ice-blue eyes. “I think you’re right, Mr. Silva,” he replies quietly, his voice rough.

Silva resists the urge to grin and instead sets his face in a serious expression. “You know, I never did answer your question. Whether I came here to kill you or fuck you.” He continues to slide the gun across Bond’s skin, watching as the agent’s nipples stiffen at the touch. “So I think you’ll have to convince me. Do what I say, and you live. Don’t,” and here Silva moves the barrel to rest against Bond’s lips, “and you die.”

Bond nods, and Silva smiles a predator’s smile. “Good. Now suck.” He presses the gun harder against Bond’s mouth, and-- God help him --the agent parts his lips, letting Silva in. Bond lets out a soft whimper as the barrel slides across his tongue, metallic-tasting and cold in his mouth. The sight of the gun disappearing between Bond’s obscenely wet, pink lips is almost more than Silva can bear. He resists the urge to touch himself and instead turns his attention to Bond’s cock, which is now painfully hard and straining against the inseam of his pants.

“You like that?” Silva whispers as he presses the gun deeper into the agent’s mouth, almost making him gag. Bond shivers as Silva presses his palm against the curve of his erection, hot and pulsing even through the fabric of his trousers. Silva moves the gun faster, watching for any signs of protest from Bond, but the agent continues to take it, his tongue lathing over the barrel with every push inside his mouth. It’s all too easy to imagine his own cock between those lips, and Silva shudders despite himself.

Finally he slows and pulls the barrel from Bond’s mouth, biting a lip at the sight of the man lying flushed and disheveled beneath him. He gives the gun one final stroke across Bond’s spit-slicked lower lip and then sets it aside, gently wiping the agent’s mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Good. Very good.”

“Now then… I’d say you deserve a reward for obeying me so well, wouldn’t you?” Bond doesn’t dare to respond; only watches Silva hopefully from his tether. Silva chuckles and leans in for a brief kiss, tasting iron in his mouth.

Bond’s skin erupts in goosebumps as Silva trails his lips across the agent’s throat, pausing to suck a red mark into the tender skin. He moves lower, grazing across the collarbone and settling on a stiff pink nipple. Silva licks at the sensitive nub, eliciting a slight moan and a shudder from Bond. “So responsive.” The agent arches beneath him as Silva teases the nipple with his teeth, sucking and lightly biting until the skin is red and swollen to the touch. Then he moves to the other side.

Before Silva even reaches Bond’s stomach the agent is a shaking wreck beneath him, his face flushed and sweaty. “Do you want me to touch you?” Silva asks, hovering above the curve of Bond’s cock where it tents the fabric of his pants. Bond shudders, arching towards him desperately.

Silva smiles and undoes the closure of Bond’s trousers, each movement of his hands painfully slow. The agent is rock-hard, with a small wet patch of pre-come on his dark grey briefs, and Silva thinks that he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Bond gasps in anticipation as Silva pulls down the briefs, exposing his flushed erection to the cool air of the hotel room. Silva bites his lower lip, taking in the sight of Bond’s impressively veined length. He can already imagine the taste and silken texture on his tongue, and without hesitation he leans in to lick a long stripe from the base of the agent’s cock to the purpling head. Bond lets out a strangled shout, and Silva pauses as an idea suddenly comes to him.

“Vocal, are we?” he asks, and he could swear that Bond blushes. “Don’t worry. I have just the thing.”

Silva reaches behind him for his dinner jacket and produces a silk red pocket square, balling it in his hand to approximate a gag. To his surprise, Bond opens his mouth willingly, letting Silva in. “Better?” Bond nods and makes a humming sound, the fabric dampening on his tongue. “Much better.”

Without warning, Silva bends down to suck Bond’s cock again, relishing the muffled moans the agent makes as he swirls his tongue around the slit. Total control. Silva’s always prided himself on his abilities, and even though Bond’s length is impressive, he’s able to take it down to the hilt. He sucks until Bond is shaking beneath him, hollowing his cheeks and massaging the agent’s toned thighs with his thumbs as he goes down. Bond’s moans are more frequent now; loud even with the pocket square in his mouth, and Silva knows that he’s reaching the edge.

Finally he relents, eliciting a desperate-sounding grunt from Bond as he releases the agent’s cock with an obscene pop. “Shh, it’s all right,” Silva murmurs, wiping the wetness from his lips with the back of his hand. “I intend to make you come. But we’re not finished yet.”

“I’m going to fuck you, James,” Silva continues, his voice as neutral as if he was discussing the weather or time of day. Recognition flickers across Bond’s face at the use of his first name, but otherwise he is silent, his eyes dark with arousal. “I’m going to make you scream.”

Silva takes his time with prep, fishing a condom and a travel-sized packet of lube from his discarded jacket and slicking two fingers until they shine. Bond moans loudly when he slides the first finger in; a filthy, broken sound that makes Silva want to drop everything and fuck him on the spot. But as much as he wants to destroy Bond, he doesn’t want to _hurt_ him-- not yet, at least-- so he continues, working up to three fingers until Bond’s bucking beneath him.

Finally Silva rolls on the condom and slicks up his own engorged cock, resisting the urge to touch himself more than necessary. He’s rock hard, harder than he’s been in weeks, and from the way Bond’s eyes widen when he drops his pants he can tell that the agent is desperate for it.

“Do you want me inside you?” Bond shudders at his words and arches towards him, his wrists raw where the ties rub against the skin. If he wasn’t gagged, Silva imagines that he’d be begging for it.

Slowly, he braces a hand against the headboard and slides his length inside Bond, relishing the way the agent writhes beneath him when he bottoms out. “You feel so good,” Silva whispers, and he means it. Bond is smooth and incredibly tight, not to mention how gorgeous he looks with a cock up his ass.

Gradually, he picks up the pace, fucking deeper inside Bond until the agent is moaning constantly beneath him. He finds the spot that makes Bond go boneless and hammers into it relentlessly, thrusting hard enough to make the bedframe rattle against the wall.

The noises Bond’s making around the gag are completely incoherent, and Silva can tell that the agent is reaching his climax. He wraps his fingers in a vise-like grip around Bond’s cock, tugging until the agent’s skin is hot with pleasure.

Silva slows for a moment to appreciate the sight beneath him: Bond is an absolute wreck, his eyes closed in bliss and sweat pooling in the dip of his abs. He takes a mental picture, knowing that he won’t forget this image any time soon.

At a whimper of protest from Bond he quickly resumes his brutal pace, reaching down to drag his fingernails across the agent’s chest. Silva can feel Bond begin to clench erratically around him, his moans going guttural around the pocket square in his mouth. In a moment of spontaneity Silva removes the gag, relishing the way Bond’s shouts echo around the room as he does so. Bond’s cock jumps in his palm, and, sensing that the agent is on the edge of climax, Silva seeks out a nipple with his other hand and twists it roughly. Bond makes a whimpering sound and then he’s coming, spilling hotly into Silva’s hand and onto his own stomach. Silva’s not far behind, and with one last stutter of his hips he comes, gasping as the agent’s body tightens around his pulsing length.

For a moment Silva is too stunned by his orgasm to do anything other than slump against the warm body beneath him. Bond seems to be in a similar state; his eyes are closed and he looks almost catatonic. Finally he manages to withdraw his softening cock from the agent’s body and dispose of the condom, wiping his oversensitive skin with a washcloth. In a moment of tenderness he does the same to Bond, cleaning the sweat and come from his stomach and untying his bruised wrists from the headboard.

Bond appears to regain consciousness and sighs contentedly. “Cigar?” His voice is completely shot from screaming, and Silva chuckles. “Please.”

Bond produces a fine-looking cigar from the bedside table and lights it, not bothering to cover his naked body with sheets. Silva can’t complain.

They share the cigar in comfortable silence, a hazy cloud of sweet-smelling smoke hanging over their heads. It’s pleasant. After a few minutes Bond is the first to speak, rolling on his side with a smile playing on his lips.

“That was…” he trails off and laughs hoarsely. “Amazing, really.”

Silva grins, pleased. “I thought so too.”

Bond finishes the cigar and stubs it out on a crystal ashtray, and Silva takes this as his cue to leave.

He’s picking up his clothes from the floor when Bond speaks again, unexpectedly. “You can stay, if you’d like.”

Interesting. Silva briefly toys with the idea, which is undoubtedly appealing, and decides against it. The man is MI6, after all, and he doesn’t feel like inventing an explanation as to why Le Chiffre will wake up in an empty suite the next day.

“It’s better if I go.”

Once he’s dressed again he doesn’t linger; just cards a hand briefly through Bond’s hair and leaves through the door he came in.

It’s only when he’s a few steps into the hallway that he hears Bond’s voice echo faintly from the hotel room.

“I’m glad you decided not to kill me.”

That night, Silva falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

\---

The next day is a blur of activity.

In the morning, Bond re-enters the game and loses spectacularly. Silva doesn’t bother to watch, but Le Chiffre tells him all about it over lunch. Apparently, the agent’s people-reading skills had failed him, and after falsely calling a bluff on Le Chiffre he lost enough money to put him out of the game. Silva is vaguely disappointed. Confident that he’ll win in the end, Le Chiffre invites him to watch the rest of the game that evening. Silva obliges somewhat reluctantly, knowing that Bond will have most likely left the country by then.

But to his surprise-- and Le Chiffre’s-- Bond is back at the table when Silva enters the casino that night, having mysteriously gathered enough funds to re-enter the game. He looks incredibly smug. Silva suspects it had something to do with the American at the table, who is obviously working for the CIA. Somehow, Bond manages to make a comeback over the next couple of hours, building enough bank to send Le Chiffre nervously reaching for his inhaler every few minutes.

And then, something strange happens. Bond’s on his third martini or so when he suddenly puts the drink down on the table, a brief expression of horror flickering across his face. Odd. Silva watches curiously as the agent excuses himself from the game and stumbles towards the exit, his gait labored and uneven. Le Chiffre watches him go, an arrogant smile on his face-- and suddenly it hits him. Bond’s been poisoned.

Silva feels strangely conflicted. On one hand, he’s slightly impressed that Le Chiffre had the balls to pull a move like this, but on the other, he doesn’t want Bond to die this way. He shouldn’t care, but for some reason, he feels almost… protective?

In any case, now isn’t the time to analyze his emotions. If Bond really has been poisoned, then he most likely only has minutes left. After a fleeting moment of indecision, Silva shuts off the rational side of his brain and quietly exits the casino through a side door.

The night is warm and mild, and the breeze smells like the ocean. Silva enjoys it briefly before snapping into action, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Bond.

Knowing that Bond is a MI6 agent, he’d most likely commandeered the most ridiculous, flashy car possible for the trip. It’s what Silva would have done. With this in mind, Silva narrows his scope of vision, eliminating anything with a net value of less than a hundred thousand pounds.

And then he spots it- the Aston. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath, breaking into a jog as he approaches the gorgeous silver coupe.

The driver’s door is open, and dread washes over him as he recognizes the pair of legs hanging limply out onto the concrete. It’s Bond, and he’s unconscious.

Silva curses under his breath as he checks the agent’s pulse, which is spiraling out of control. Tachycardia- it’s _digitalis_ poisoning, most likely. Where’s the damn defibrillator?

He finds it partially hidden under the seat, halfway assembled. Bond had obviously attempted to revive himself with it, but the connection wasn’t plugged in. Quickly, Silva fixes the connection and charges the paddles. For a moment, right before he applies the shock to Bond’s chest, he wonders just what he’s trying to do here. Saving this agent would not only thwart Le Chiffre’s plan, it would be contrary to every vow he’s made against MI6 since his imprisonment almost ten years ago.

But there’s a part of him that doesn’t care. Allowing Bond to die would accomplish nothing. Of course, M would mourn his loss initially, but soon he’d be replaced and everything would be the same again- no progress made, just a dead agent who was too young to be bitter yet.

So he delivers the shock, and Bond’s eyes flutter open. Silva watches him cough weakly, the color slowly returning to his face as his pulse grows stronger.

“You saved me?” Bond finally asks once he’s fully lucid again, his voice incredulous. “Why?”

Silva smirks at him. “Because… well, just look at you. It would be such a waste.”

Bond groans and flops an arm over his eyes. “You saved me because you like the way my arse looks.”

“Perhaps.”

\---

Once Bond is strong enough to walk, he insists on returning to the game. Silva doesn’t stop him; in fact, he can’t wait to see the look on Le Chiffre’s face when the agent returns from the dead.

Bond enters the casino again and Silva trails behind him, wanting to remain unseen. He reclaims his position at the bar and watches with a smirk as Le Chiffre goes white at the sight of Bond’s resurrection.

The game continues, and although Le Chiffre tries valiantly, it’s obvious that his failure to kill Bond has shaken him. As a last-ditch effort he and Bond go all in, putting the pot at almost 100 million pounds. Somehow, Le Chiffre has a full house, and for a moment Silva wonders if he’ll win the game after all.

And then Bond plays his hand: a straight flush. After all this, he’s managed to win the game. Silva almost wants to congratulate him. He bites back a smile as Le Chiffre stands abruptly and storms out of the room, furious- if he finds out what Silva did, there’ll be hell to pay.

\---

Now that the game is over, Silva makes himself scarce. It’s probably best to avoid Le Chiffre for now, and he doubts that Bond is stupid enough to hang around much longer either. He walks into the city and eats a peaceful solo dinner at a nearby restaurant, enjoying the little time he has left on his vacation.

When he finally returns to the hotel, Silva begins to feel the first inklings that something’s not right. Le Chiffre is gone, and so is his car. He opens his laptop and rapidly scans through the hotel database: Bond hasn’t checked out yet. Strange. If he had any sense, he’d have left as soon as he collected the winnings.

Growing suspicious, Silva streams footage from several security cameras and finds no sign of Bond- not in his room, nor in the bar or at the hotel restaurant. Something must have happened to him, and he doesn’t doubt that it’s Le Chiffre’s doing.

There’s only one thing to do: find him. Bond has survived this far, even after the poison, and Silva will be damned if he allows the agent to die at the hands of someone as incompetent as Le Chiffre.

But there’s no time to waste. Quickly, Silva uses his laptop to track the GPS signal from Le Chiffre’s car, tracing it to an abandoned warehouse several miles away. How cliché.

Without missing a beat, Silva grabs the keys to Le Chiffre’s other car, a sub-par Range Rover, and rushes outside. He drives as fast as possible without going over the guardrails, arriving at the warehouse within ten minutes. He recognizes Le Chiffre’s car parked outside: this is the place.

It’s dark outside, and the warehouse looms in front of him ominously. Silva pats the 10-mm in his waistband for reassurance.

One of the entrances is slightly propped open, and Silva silently edges his way inside. He listens carefully, holding his breath, but there’s nothing apart from the quiet sound of dripping water.

And then, something-- it’s faint, coming from several rooms away, but it’s unmistakably a cry of pain. _Bond._

Flattening himself against the wall, Silva follows the source of the noise. He can barely see in the darkness, and it feels like hours before he finally arrives at the innermost room of the warehouse. The door is closed, and there are two unfamiliar men standing guard on either side. Le Chiffre must have hired them.

Silva hesitates, unsure of what to do. Should he shoot them and break the door down, or should he just turn back now and save himself the trouble? He debates leaving, but then an especially agonizing shout from Bond strengthens his resolve. The agent _is_ MI6, but does he deserve to be tortured? Torture is something that Silva knows all too well. It sickens him.

He won’t leave Bond like he himself was once left.

Without further hesitation, Silva leaps out from his hiding place and quickly puts two bullets in the heads of the guards. The screaming coming from behind the closed door abruptly stops: Le Chiffre must know that he’s here. With a grunt, he swiftly kicks down the door, which clatters loudly as it lands on the cement floor.

Bond is tied to a chair, his face beaten almost beyond recognition. He’s completely naked and covered in sweat, and Silva has to look away at the sight of his bloody and bruised genitals.

Bond turns and laughs hoarsely, his teeth stained red. “I was hoping you’d come.”

Silva is at a loss for words. He turns to a sweaty and disheveled Le Chiffre, who is holding some sort of makeshift club at the end of a long rope.

“Torture is the weak man’s form of punishment,” he finally spits, looking at Le Chiffre with disgust.

Le Chiffre raises his hands in an expression of peace. “Raoul, I--“ he stammers, dropping the club at his feet. “You know this man is the reason we lost all that money.”

Silva laughs. “It’s never been about the money. If you knew who I am, you’d realize that.” He begins to advance on Le Chiffre, thumbing the trigger as he walks.

“Now, this is really unnecessary. I’m sure we can make some sort of arrangement,” Le Chiffre continues hurriedly, glancing behind him at the sprawled bodies of his former guards. He begins to back up until he reaches the wall, his face grey with fear.

Silva shakes his head slowly, almost feeling sorry for the man. “I’m sorry, my dear. You’ve become redundant.”

And then he pulls the trigger.

**1 month later**

After two weeks of bed rest, James Bond is finally healed and ready to return to service. Despite having nearly been castrated, he feels good: he’s off M’s bad list for the incident at the Nambutu embassy, and he’s well enough to drive the Aston again, which is what he’s doing this particular Saturday afternoon.

Free time is a rarity for double-ohs, and Bond intends to enjoy his last weekend before returning to MI6 as much as possible. He takes the Aston all around London, enjoying the admiring glances he gets at its sleek silver lines. It’s sunny outside- another rarity- and he drives with the window open, stopping at the liquor store to buy a bottle of whiskey before he returns to his flat for the evening. Maybe he’ll even order takeout for dinner.

“Package for you, Mr. Bond,” the receptionist calls as he waits for the lift, and Bond takes it curiously. He doesn’t receive packages very often, and this one is small and light. No return address.

He sets the whiskey on the counter once he’s up in his flat and settles into an armchair with the package on his lap. What could it be?

He tears off the packing tape and opens the box. There’s a folded piece of expensive-looking notepaper and underneath it, something small and soft wrapped in tissue paper. He decides to read the note first.

_I hope we meet again._

That’s it, no signature or anything else. Handwritten, but he doesn’t recognize the strong, all-caps handwriting.

Odd. Without dwelling on it further he takes out the ball of tissue paper, allowing the object inside to fall onto his lap.

At first it just looks like a scrap of fabric. Dark red and sumptuous, with little tears in the silk that almost look like-- almost like bite marks.

And then it hits him.

It’s the pocket square.

\---

**THE END**


End file.
